Our Castle by the Sea

by Lucy Strange

  Husband? I suddenly remembered Michael talking about his father’s vision of the future—the British Empire reborn under a leader like Hitler—and then I was furious with myself: Why had I not considered the possibility that Mrs. Baron might have shared the same views? Michael had been brainwashed into his way of thinking by his very own parents.

  I have to stop her. I took a deep breath and tried to lift myself up in the chair, but my arms felt almost as numb as my legs. I screwed up my face and willed myself to move, but all I could manage was a feeble wobble before I collapsed into the chair again, air wheezing in and out through my throat, tight with terrors.

  Mrs. Baron laughed loudly. “What was I worrying about? I won’t need to chloroform you at all, will I? You’ll be a good girl and stay right there, won’t you?” She hummed part of the national anthem, then stopped and laughed at me again. “Let’s play musical statues, Petra!”

  I gritted my teeth and managed to get one of my arms up onto the ledge of the window behind me, but it was no good—the rest of me was rubbery and useless. I couldn’t go anywhere. I searched around the room frantically, looking for something I could grab or throw, but there was nothing. The only thing I could see that might possibly be able to help me was just beyond my reach.

  Mrs. Baron stood back, admiring the optic as it spun soundlessly around. “And the best thing is that your family will get the blame for this!” she said. “Who would suspect the ARP warden of operating the lamp in the lighthouse? I’m the one who goes around telling people to put lights out!” She took hold of the lever for the lamp and pulled it down hard with both hands. Light exploded out like a white-hot harpoon.

  “Mrs. Baron!” I shouted, covering my eyes from the sudden glare. “There are enemy planes out there—you’re lighting up the whole coastline for them! They could attack the lighthouse—”

  “Tonight’s dogfight is just a diversion,” she said coldly, and the light flashed around and around her head like a hellish halo. “And anyway—even if we were caught in the cross fire, it would be worth it. I’ve been waiting so long for tonight. Sacrifices have to be made in wars. Your mother, for example—she was a sacrifice.”

  Mutti? And that word sacrifice. For so many years it had been a word that meant only one thing to me: four girls on a clifftop singing to the sea. Four girls who offered up their lives to save others. In that moment, I was aware of the Daughters of Stone outside on the clifftop, sparkling darkly, calling to me as one of their own—warning me, giving me strength. So many lives were at risk now—it wasn’t just Mags and my Pa, as it had been at the dawn of Dunkirk—now it was the harbor, Dover, the white cliffs; it was every soul who lived along our coast. If the landing from the U-boat was successful, it could be every soul in England.

  The song of the stones became almost dizzying, like a fingertip running around the edge of a brandy glass—high, resonant, and piercing—a siren. And somewhere below the sound, somewhere far below the lantern room, there was another sound. A murmur of voices, and a little dry sound, rather like the cough of a fox.

  It can’t be …

  Mrs. Baron watched the hypnotic beam of light, and while she was facing away from me, I did the only thing that I could do. I hauled myself forward on the chair, stretching out as far as I possibly could, fingers reaching, reaching, until I caught the brass end of the speaking tube between my shaking fingertips and brought it quickly to my mouth. I blew as hard as I could through the tube, praying that the whistle was fitted to the other end. Sure enough, the shrill sound echoed up from the kitchen. Mrs. Baron spun and strode towards me to swat the speaking tube from my hands. It clattered loudly to the floor.

  “What are you doing, you stupid girl? Do you think that will stop me? There is no one at the other end. No one to help you. Your grandfather is in Dover. Your stupid sister is unconscious. Your father is dead. Your mother is locked up, miles and miles away from here.” Her voice swelled with manic pride. “I knew that she was innocent, of course, and I am sorry about what happened. But it was better to have her locked up than to risk losing the real collaborator—the one I needed—the one who was capable of passing on such useful information direct from the Admiralty.”

  “Pa,” I breathed. “You knew Pa was the spy?”

  “Of course I knew it was him. I made him do it.”

  What?

  “When my contact in Germany asked for military maps of the coastline, activity of naval vessels, diagrams with coordinates of the local shipping hazards—the sandbank and so on, I knew that there was only one man around here in a position to provide them. And I knew he couldn’t be bought by the Nazis at any price. So I started digging … I looked in the marriage register—and I struck gold straightaway. No one attended your parents’ wedding except two family members from your mother’s side. Her aunt and cousin. They were both witnesses for the marriage and so their full names are in the register. My contact in Berlin recognized the cousin’s name straightaway. He is in Hitler’s Gestapo now—a very powerful man—and your stupid mother had been sending him birthday and Christmas cards right up until last year.”

  The man with the little blond beard … So there had been another reason for hiding the wedding photograph, then—it could have been used as evidence against Mutti—evidence that she was, albeit unwittingly, in contact with a member of the Nazi secret police.

  “This placed your family in a very vulnerable position indeed.” She chuckled oddly. “I sent an anonymous letter to your father, demanding that he deliver the required information to our pickup point, or your mother’s contacts with Hitler’s government would be exposed—to the police and to the press. Your father, I’m delighted to say, was very compliant.”

  So Pa had been blackmailed. He had no choice. Even when Pinstripe had given him the chance to tell the truth, he had refused, preferring to die a traitor than to endanger Mutti by revealing the truth about her cousin Max.

  “And your mother even confessed! The perfect scapegoat, walking herself willingly to the slaughter—very obliging of her!”

  “But the police know it wasn’t her—that detective from London—he knows that it was Pa. And soon they will know that you were the one behind it all.”

  “How will they know, Petra? Who do you think is going to tell them?” As she spoke, the beam of light swept over the sea and I thought I saw something—a little shoal of shapes, dark against the shining water. Could those be the landing craft from the U-boat?

  I have to shut the lamp off. I managed to shuffle forward in my seat—just a little, and Mrs. Baron turned to watch me struggle. “This country is going to be magnificent,” she said, and her eyes gleamed. “It will be a newer, cleaner world—ordered and perfect—exactly as my husband said it would be!” She pulled a small bottle from her pocket, opened it, and tipped some of the contents onto a white cloth. “And nothing will stop us,” she hissed, taking a step towards me. “I had no qualms about putting her to sleep when she tried to stand in my way, and I’m more than happy to dispatch you too, Petra. Obstacles along the path to glory must be removed!”

  Planes roared across the sky as Mrs. Baron pushed the white cloth into my face.

  It smelled like strong alcohol or something you’d use to clean a kitchen sink. I gulped in a quick breath of clean air and tried to duck out of the way, wriggling back in my chair, but then I heard something—footsteps on the lighthouse stairs, a shout. Mrs. Baron twisted towards the noise and I shoved her back hard with both hands. She fell heavily, dropping the cloth and the glass bottle, which shattered on the floor.

  “You’re not going to stop me,” she screamed, scrabbling to get up, and I saw her reach for the heavy iron handle that cranks up the optic. “You stupid little girl! You pathetic little mouse!” As she lurched towards me, raising the crank above her head, a figure plunged into the lantern room and hurled itself at her. It took just a moment for me to recognize my brilliant, heroic sister. Mags tackled the shrieking, writhing woman back onto the floor. S
he tried to wrestle the crank handle from Mrs. Baron, who shoved it up towards my sister’s face, catching her hard on the chin, but Mags had wrapped herself around the back of Mrs. Baron now and was clinging on like a demon, stopping her from getting back onto her feet.

  Light blasted around us and the sound of engines in the sky was almost deafening, but I wasn’t afraid anymore; I was full of fire now—this monster had taken so much from me already—I wasn’t going to let her destroy me or my sister or our Castle. I launched myself out of the chair and landed heavily, driving all the breath from my body. Gasping, clawing, I hauled myself across the floor. I pushed myself up with one hand, arching my back, and with the other hand I snatched at the lever of the lamp and shoved it upward, gasping with relief.

  The darkness rushed back around us, thick as a swarm of bees.

  There was a violent scraping noise, a thud, and a cry of pain.

  “Mags!”

  Then footsteps down the staircase—quick and light.

  Mrs. Baron was getting away!

  There were scuffling screams on the steps. Then a familiar voice boomed up: “She got past me—I’m going after her.” It was Pinstripe! So I had heard his dry little cough. “I need some assistance, Sergeant—get up there and help the girls,” he shouted as he pelted back down the stairs. Within seconds a young policeman appeared, wearing a muddy uniform and holding a torch. “Can I help you, miss?” he said, bending low to help me up.

  “No,” I said. “Help Mags—help my sister.”

  I followed the beam of his torch as he made his way to the lump that lay on the floor—perfectly still.

  “Is she all right?”

  “I think so,” he said. “Unconscious, though. I’ll take her down to the kitchen; then I’ll come back for you.”

  He was down the stairs with Mags in his arms and back again for me within what felt like a matter of seconds.

  “Wait,” I said. “There’s something I need to do first.” I was listening for the soft whirring of the optic. It grew fainter and fainter, and then stopped. Mrs. Baron hadn’t turned the handle for long enough.

  I stretched up from the floor one last time, feeling my neck and my upper back strain as I reached for the lever and pulled it down hard.

  Blinding light pierced the darkness, blasting out towards the sea in one fixed, steady beam.

  “Miss!” the policeman exclaimed. “You can’t do that! The blackout! There are planes …”

  “I know,” I said. “But right now this is more important. There’s a German U-boat out there in the Channel, and this is the signal for them to abandon the landing.”

  “There’s a what?!”

  “You need to use the telephone in the service room downstairs, Sergeant—contact the Admiralty straightaway.”

  Down in the kitchen, the sergeant placed me carefully in the wheelchair I use when I’m in the cottage. I looked at the mud and chalk stains all over his uniform and wondered what on earth had happened to him on his way to the lighthouse. He got me a glass of water and put a blanket around me. “For the shock,” he said. Mags was lying on the window seat, unconscious under another blanket.

  “Is she all right—my sister?”

  “She’ll be just fine. Pulse like a lion’s. She’ll come round any minute, I’m sure.”

  Then Pinstripe came into the kitchen with Mrs. Baron, her wrists handcuffed together. “Found her out on the cliff,” he said. “Flashing her little torch at the sea.”

  “I wasn’t!” she shouted. “I was trying to get away from these girls. They’re insane—they had turned the lighthouse lamp on when there were planes about—German planes!” she panted. “They must be mad—I was trying to stop them but they attacked me! I’m the ARP warden, you know—I’m a magistrate!”

  Pinstripe marshaled her into a chair. He cleared his throat—his familiar little fox cough. “I’m afraid it’s no use, Mrs. Baron. I heard you,” he said. “I heard everything you said, through this.” And he held up the speaking tube. “Just as well Petra had the presence of mind to alert us by sounding the whistle.”

  Pinstripe whispered something to the muddy sergeant, who immediately disappeared through the kitchen door. Then he turned back to Mrs. Baron, shivering with rage in her chair. “I heard you say that you have a contact in Germany, that you are responsible for passing on information to the enemy, that you blackmailed Petra’s father into colluding with an act of treachery, and that you have, tonight, been attempting to help stage an enemy landing. You are, in short, a traitor. And we’ve also been able to connect you directly to the acts of sabotage carried out by your son earlier in the summer.”

  “The sabotage? But how could you possibly … ?”

  “We have his confession, Mrs. Baron.”

  Everything stopped then. Mrs. Baron sat perfectly still and stared at the inspector, the bones of her shoulders rising and falling with each breath. “His … ? What do you mean? Michael is dead.”

  And then the kitchen door opened, and we all turned towards it.

  It was a ghost. The ghost of Michael Baron.

  His hair was long and greasy. He was as thin as a garden rake. His clothes were dirty, and there was a terrible stench as he limped into the kitchen. The sergeant followed behind him, one hand on the boy’s filthy shoulder. I saw then that Michael’s wrists were handcuffed in front of him.

  Mrs. Baron had not moved. Her red-rimmed eyes were staring at her son. “Michael,” she breathed, attempting to get up, but Pinstripe pushed her gently back into her chair. “Michael—you’re supposed to be down at Dragon Bay with a lantern. What are you doing here?”

  “Dragon Bay?” I said, incredulous. “He’s supposed to be dead, isn’t he?”

  “I’m sorry, Mother,” Michael whispered, and his once-handsome chin quivered pathetically. “They found me. I’ve told them everything.”

  “You’ve …”

  “Yes.”

  And then there was another voice. “It’s because of me,” said Mags from the window seat. She sat up, holding her head, wide-awake. “It’s all my fault.”

  I think perhaps, you ought to give us a full explanation, Miss Smith.”

  My sister looked at Pinstripe. “Yes.” But she didn’t address what followed to the detective; she looked at me instead. “I joined the search for Michael after the bomb, just as I said I would, right after the ambulance took you away, Pet. I was the first person to find him. He was up on the clifftop in the middle of the gorse bushes—he must have been thrown backwards by the blast. His leg was broken. Michael begged me not to call for help. He said if I called the police, he would be arrested for sabotage. He told me that it was you who had cut the telephone line, Pet.”

  “Me?”

  My sister was embarrassed then. Worse than embarrassed—ashamed. “Yes. And that he’d tried to stop you.”

  “And you believed him?”

  “No. Maybe for a while.”

  Pinstripe looked at her unblinkingly. So did Mrs. Baron. And so did I.

  “Yes. I believed him.” She couldn’t look at Michael. “It was easier to believe that my innocent little sister had been manipulated by someone—got herself tangled up in something stupid—than to believe that—”

  I finished the sentence for her. “Than to believe that your boyfriend was a Nazi.”

  Her eyes filled up with tears. “Yes.”

  “So you hid him.” And I knew where. I had seen the mud and the chalk on the policeman’s uniform. “In Dragon Bay Cave.”

  Mags looked at me almost gratefully. “Yes.”

  “And you’ve been taking him food from the lighthouse,” I continued—the riddle of my poor, dwindled sister suddenly making sense. “You’ve been sharing your rations with him. That’s why you’ve got so thin, Mags.”

  A tear ran down the side of my sister’s face. “I wanted so much to believe that he was innocent. He was very ill—I went to see him every day to look after him. But then, as he got stronger, he started telling m
e things—things that he thought about the world, about the war. He had persuaded me to take him out in the boat several times before the bomb. He had asked me about the sandbank, and the lighthouse, about the tides. I thought he was just showing an interest in boats because he liked me, but—”

  Mrs. Baron interrupted her then. “But he was just using you for information. You were useful,” she sneered. “Michael and I had planned exactly how to get what we needed from you. You were so easy to manipulate. Just like your pathetic father.”

  If my legs had worked, I’d have flown across the room and clawed her nasty red eyes out.

  “As the weeks went by, it got harder and harder for me to believe that Michael had told me the truth,” Mags went on. She wiped both eyes with the back of her hand. “Today I asked Petra if what she had said about Michael was true and she said—”

  “I said I couldn’t remember.”

  Mags smiled through her tears then. “Yes. But I’m your big sister, Pet. I can always tell when you’re lying, remember? I knew you were trying to protect me from the truth. I went straight to Michael in the cave and confronted him. He told me everything, and he begged me to help him tonight—just one last thing, he said. I needed to help him get down to Dragon Bay, and then come back and light the lamp at exactly eleven o’clock.”

  “But this time you refused.”

  “I went straight to the police station and told them everything. I told them where to find Michael and that they were planning something that involved the lighthouse. And then, when I got home, she was here.” She pointed at Mrs. Baron. “She told me what she wanted me to do, and I refused. Then there was a struggle—I remember the little bottle in her hand and—”